


Adamant Experiment

by LaFlashdrive



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Multi, Voluntary Probing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaFlashdrive/pseuds/LaFlashdrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally you aren’t attracted to anyone that doesn’t identify as a woman, but there are exceptions to every rule and this is definitely one of those times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adamant Experiment

Normally you aren’t attracted to anyone that doesn’t identify as a woman, but there are exceptions to every rule and this is definitely one of those times.

There was something about the way they held a baseball bat when your actual girlfriend seemed to think a frying pan was a legitimate weapon. There was something about how, when your girlfriend wanted to film a video apologizing to her ex in case you all died, they were fearless and intolerant to Laura’s submissive grovel. There was something about the way they used to be afraid of you yet had somehow managed to get over that fear in their newfound sense of reckless abandon. It made you think it was possible for anyone to accept a vampire for what they were. It made you think maybe Ell could have been that way, too.

You tell LaFontaine you’re interested the moment Laura is out of earshot. The spunky girl immediately designates herself as the one to cross reference the online catalog, leaving LaFontaine as the one to explore the disappearing and reappearing basement of the haunted building, and you quickly volunteer to be their body guard. Laura is stuck in one place. The worst thing that can happen to her is that her computer monitor blows up or its wires lash out at her like the tentacles of a sea monster. Laura knows how to fight off electrical cords off with her frying pan and how to unplug sentient machines from the wall. LaFontaine will be threatened by flying tomes and falling bookshelves. Only a vampire’s super speed and super strength can keep them safe. A Louisville Slugger isn't going to cut it. Laura doesn't dispute.

You aren’t here to research. You don’t care about parasites and you already know everything there is to know about Styria and about Silas. You are here to protect. You are here to serve. And you will help LaFontaine in any way you can.

You back them against a shelf as they browse.

“What are you looking for?” you ask over their shoulder. Your chest is on their back and your mouth is intoxicatingly close to their neck, but, admittedly, you like teasing yourself and you don’t feel like biting them right now. Not yet, anyway, though you were thinking about it during the entire walk here while trailing behind a determined LaFontaine who led both you and your girlfriend fearlessly into buildings and rooms unknown.

“Anything weird,” LaFontaine answers. “Anything about vampires.”

You roll your eyes like you’re not in the subbasement of the Silas library, like LaFontaine is searching for a copy of Twilight on the internet. You’re offended they’d rather touch the pages of a book than the expanse of your skin in order to learn about vampires.

“Why read a book about the undead when you’ve got the real thing right in front of you?” Technically you are behind LaFontaine, very close behind them, but they don’t seem to notice your closeness, and they accept your presence as a shield. You’re only a bit taller than them, but that’s enough, and you like that they match up to your height even more so than Laura does. They’re too engrossed in their research to notice that you’ve placed a hand on the book shelf beside them, trapping them in the square of your arms.

“No offense,” they start, eyes scanning the shelves. “But you haven’t exactly been a treasure trove of information so far. You only know as much as we do.”

They make a good case, but not one you can't argue against. “I don’t know anything about my mother,” you protest. “I know plenty about vampires. Have you forgotten I am one?” You don’t think it’s an unnecessary comment to make. Sometimes when you live amongst humans, sleep with humans, imitate humans, you need to remind even yourself that you are not one of them. You think LaFontaine will also appreciate the reiteration that you are supernatural, that you are less than mortal, less than _normal_.

“I remember,” LaFontaine promises. “But that doesn’t help me when I can’t experiment on you. Laura wouldn’t even let me take hair and blood samples when you were tied up.” They grumble under their breath, but you can hear them easily even through the eerie hum of musty library air, buzzing with something that isn’t electricity because the swinging light bulbs overhead are dimmer than the candles you used in the seventeenth century and you’re too far away from the computers to hear their whir.

They grab something off the shelf, but they don’t even open the cover of the book and that makes you think it isn’t what they’re looking for it. It is a second best option just to ensure that they don’t go home empty handed if they don't find anything better. They try to move to a different section of a different book case, but when they turn around, they realize you have them trapped. You don’t know if that slight glisten of claustrophobic panic in their eye deters you or turns you on even more, but you like when it goes away, is replaced by that same self-assured confidence you were attracted to in the first place. They swallow like they intend to say something, but you easily beat them to it.

“There are other ways to experiment.” You let your voice fall, let your eyes roam to theirs, and you know instantly they understand what you mean because Laura is the only one oblivious enough not to recognize when you are flirting.

They meet your eye then mirror your gaze on your lips. They sum up how kissable you are, and you don’t worry that you don’t look good enough because every girl you’ve ever been with has gushed over how beautiful you are, how beautiful you will be for the remainder of eternity. Even though LaFontaine is not a girl, they are human, and they are weak to your vampiric charms. Their stare lingers at your lips, pink and gently parted in smirk, and when they make no move to step away or bring the bat in their hands to your skull, you know that you can go one step further.

Your hands are used to tangling into long locks, tugging on lengthy strands of hair when heads are between your thighs, but LaFontaine’s skin meets your fingers with little interference and you gently massage the side of their scalp because you like the prickly sensation of their buzzed hair against your fingertips.

They do not stop you. Their head seems to relax and press into your palm, but their words contradict their actions as they counter, “I thought you liked Laura.”

“I thought you liked your obsessive compulsive ginger twin,” you snap back. You purposefully give Perry a degrading nickname even though you don’t actually hate her all that much just because you know it will remind LaFontaine of the fight they are having and bring their rage on the subject bubbling up again, make them prone to let loose a little more, act a little more recklessly just because they can.

LaFontaine can’t argue with that, but their natural reaction is to find another way out of the situation, talk themselves out of danger like they’ve been trained to do their whole life. “The library probably isn’t the safest place for this to happen.” Their words are hesitant, but their hands move to your hips and you press their body closer to yours, not exactly sure what you’ll feel beneath the seam of their jeans as it presses into the gap between your thighs.

You use your leverage to let your lips brush against their earlobe as you talk into their neck, open and bare without an inch of skin obstructed by tufts of hair. You could get used to this kind of easy access, you think to yourself. “You’re with a vampire, sweetheart. This would never be safe.” Your lips explore their neck, dip into their shoulder where their collarbone stretches their skin. It’s hard for you to keep your tongue in your mouth or your fangs in your gums, but somehow you contain yourself. “Besides,” you continue, trying not to lose yourself in the dark ambiance of the room and the intoxicating scent of warm blood coursing through thick veins mere centimeters beneath the points of your canines. “I thought you liked the danger.” Greedily, you latch your mouth on their skin, hoping that if you suck hard enough, the red liquid inside their body will seep from their pores without you even needing to pierce the flesh. It doesn’t, though. No matter how hard you try. But all is far from lost.

They close their eyes and submit. You hear the bat hit the ground followed by the thud of the book, and their hands rise up under your shirt. Their palms are warm with sweat and the potential to create another flame thrower with a lighter and Laura's mace at any given moment. “Are you going to bite me?” The words fall off their lips as their thumbs trace patterns across your hips and they don’t sound scared.

“Only if you want me to,” you purr. You leave the decision up to them because if it’s up to you, you may not be able to control yourself. You might ruin another chance of this happening again, and that’s the last thing you want.

They breathe out and wrap a hand across your exposed midriff in the same way that you are cradling the back of their head with your forearm. Noticeably they tilt their neck to give you even more access than you already had, which was more than enough. “I think I might like that,” they admit.

You take that as permission. You lick your lips and unhinge your jaw, but just before your incisors scrape across their flesh, you feel sharp nails on callous fingers digging into your lower back and you stop.

“Wait,” they interject, pulling away just far enough from you to be able to look into your eyes. “I want to do you first. Just in case you kill me.”

You are caught off guard by the sudden halt in progression, and they use that single moment of weakness you display to turn the tables on you, shove you backwards into the opposite book shelf until there is a crash. A couple of books, dusty and decrepit, fall off the shelves, but the structure itself stays surprisingly sturdy and LaFontaine slides a hand across your abs and into your shorts as they balance you against the porous wall.

You don’t remember the last time you weren’t in control of a sexual encounter, but you’re almost certain whichever girl you last convinced to top you had only done so because of your incessant requests, and they had definitely not been this forward or this dominating with you.

You like the way your body has a limited range of motion between them and the stacks of leather and paper in a way that you haven’t felt since your entombment. LaFontaine makes the thought of enclosure pleasurable, digs into your wet flesh with fingers thin and precise that sink into you until there is no space between the two of you at all and you feel like you are both permanently connected. Their palm hits your clit in a dual assault, and for once you let someone take care of you without thinking of what you’re going to do for them in return. It’s a new type of selfish that you haven’t experience before. You are used to stealing from your partners; not simply accepting what they give to you. You try to hold back an embarrassing amount of moans as you attempt to come to terms with how much you enjoy this role reversal.

You are lost in your thoughts for a while, lost in the pleasure of caverns long unexplored and the rush of blood pulsing - through LaFontaine’s veins and your own. If you are in such a state of euphoria, you think the human, more simple by nature, less able to withstand any kind of force –pleasure or pain - would be collapsing at the knees at this point, and this is the thought that forces you into your old habits, convinces you to try to reciprocate what you are being given out of fear that it will stop for you if you don’t make it happen for them as well. Except when your hand shoots out to unclasp the button on LaFontaine’s jeans, you find a hand is already there, working in ways it is accustomed to because only it understands the cravings of LaFontaine’s body on any given day.

LaFontaine is kissing your neck in the way you were kissing theirs and you open your eyes to confirm the sight before you because no one has ever fucked themselves in front of you before. Generally your partners whine, beg, plead for you to take care of them, and you have never seen anyone strong willed enough to take care of themselves. You relish in the complete sense of release, of freedom. You have no job, no obligations, and when you allow yourself to surrender total control of your body to the person in front of you, it is only downhill from there. Their hips buck into yours, and the hand in their pants presses against the hand in yours, presses against your center with double the force until you’re shaking against LaFontaine’s grip, squeezing against their fingers before you can even think to prolong the orgasm wracking your body.

You feel weak in the best way possible as they take their hand out of your shorts slowly, carefully, and the moan you release when your body releases them alerts you to the fact that haven’t been as quiet as you intended to be for the last few minutes and you aren’t sure how Laura hasn’t heard you. Maybe she has. You can’t seem to focus on the topic or its implications right now. Your mind tells you one thing when you recover: Feed.

It is primal, unstoppable, essential to your health, and you remember the consent LaFontaine has already given you when you push both of you to the floor and trap their body beneath yours with muscles rigid in supernatural strength. You know LaFontaine will not be able to overpower you even if they want to, but luckily they have no desire to and they groan as loudly as you did while they were fucking you as you sink your teeth into their neck.

LaFontaine’s blood is savory and rich, salty and more bitter than any girl’s you’ve ever drank, and you like it. You wonder if the source of their taste only comes from the health-obsessed Perry keeping them well-fed or if there might actually be some middle ground between the gender you dislike and the one you prefer that you might be interested in coming back to, tasting for a second time or a third or a tenth. Your brain tells you that this could be your only opportunity to suck in that flavor, that you should drink as much of it as you can while you can, but you know that is only your stomach talking and you’re old enough now to silence that voice in your gut. You will not kill Lafontaine like your body wants you to and like they thought you might because that would piss Laura off and bring Danny back with another stake and it would ruin your chances of feeding from LaFontaine again because you think if Laura and Perry aren’t in the picture that the person beneath your teeth right now might be willing to let it happen once more, if only for research purposes.

You surrender their neck.

Because you need to distance yourself to swallow and to sheath your fangs, you roll off of LaFontaine and onto the cold ground of a basement that didn’t exist a mere few hours ago. It is not as comfortable to lie against as the humans’ body, but you are used to hard surfaces and you try not to think about it. You lick your lips again and stick out your tongue against LaFontaine’s neck to catch the last falling droplets of blood like rain during a storm from the two open wounds in their neck. They let you suckle for another moment until instinct tells them to put pressure on the abrasion, stop the bleeding. Perfectly good blood is wasted when it dries against the palm of their hand.

You think they might be mad or hurt when they sit up and leave you on the ground, but then they lick their fingers where the digits had been inside of you and moan as the flavor of you hits their tongue. You see the action as one of feeding, even though they are not doing it for nutrients like you did, and you revel in the comradery of a mutual feast, something you haven’t experienced since the turn of the eighteenth century.

You sit up and kiss them without thinking about it because they taste like you and you taste like them, and they don’t even look disgusted as some of their blood dribbles from your mouth onto theirs. When they pull away, your mouth misses their skin, misses their flesh, but you know their lungs miss air even more.

You think about saying something cheesy like “that was amazing” like so many humans have done to you after an unexpected hook up, but you don’t because you did expect this. LaFontaine is trying to stand on shaky legs, so you lift yourself up to brace them and help them gain their balance.

“Thanks.” You think they might try to hold your hand, but one is covered in blood and the other is scented with your cum, and the devilish look they give you when you lock eyes again tells you that this is not that kind of exchange, that this is a secret between the two of you that you can cherish for memory’s sake and they can hold in high esteem for independence’s sake. You smile smugly as pride ripples through your body and you admire the handiwork of your bite marks on their neck before it occurs to you that the wound is going to be there for a while.

“What are we going to tell Laura?” You think of adding Perry to the sentence, too, but you don’t think of that until the moment passes, so you don’t.

“We don’t have to explain shit to anyone,” LaFontaine declares aggressively. You agree with them, but you also don’t want to ruin your chances with Laura just because you hooked up with her best friend once. LaFontaine notices that and covers for you. “We’ll just tell her that Absalom, Absalom went for my neck this time and not my wrist. I guess I’ll tell Perry that, too.”

You chuckle and remember that Absalom, Absalom is probably just a few feet away from you, not quite as appreciative of the joke and out for revenge after losing its battle with LaFontaine last time. You remember that your mother built a haunted library and that you left the girl you think you might love alone in it without any tall redheads to text to come to her rescue this time. You remember that you’re pretty sure in 1874 someone got sucked into that card catalog and has never been seen since. You should get back to her, you realize, so you do.

“Come on,” you direct. One of your hands is on LaFontaine’s shoulder and the other reaches down to pick up their discarded book and the bat, as if either of them were actually useful. You hear a tome fall behind you. A table levitates beside you. A chill courses up your spine that makes you feel like you’re being watched. “Let’s go back to Laura.”


End file.
